Snakes, Apples, Paradise
by WolfAtSea
Summary: "And what have I always taught you, brat?" I roll my eyes with all the dramatic flair befitting an heir of Slytherin, and begin droning: "There is no good or evil …" YET ANOTHER THE DARK LORD ADOPTS HARRY STORY
1. One - The Beginning

**Declaration: I don't own the Harry Potter series.**

 **A/N: I'm still working on Elba and About A Boy, don't worry, but I had this whole chapter in my head on the subway ride home and I had to get it down. Plus, I'm always up for writing in the voice of an insolent brat/later teenage angst.**

 **Despite the genres I put, I don't think this is going to be all shits and giggles. Hopefully :P**

 **Please drop me a line if you like it?**

* * *

One: The Beginning

* * *

Like what happened in the Garden of Eden, it began with a deviously plotting snake. A King Cobra, to be exact, and she was at least three times as long as I was tall – not saying much since I was four years old at the time and really quite short. I don't remember exactly how it happened. The entire exchange I recreated from my imagination and Nagini's animated bedtime stories, but Nagini does have the unfortunate tendency to exaggerate. In those moments, it's easy to tell whose familiar she is.

I was four years old and tasked with weaning the weeds in the garden by Uncle Vernon. The sweltering afternoon sun made my baggy hand-me-downs stick to my skin in a most uncomfortable manner. My stomach was growling because they withheld lunch from me because of … one thing or another I did. Then, all of a sudden, I heard a hissy voice saying strange things about master and chosen one and eating little boys.

" _Hey_!" I yelled out, but my voice sounded soft and unearthly. " _It's not right to eat people_."

The next moment, a large, large snake slithered out of the undergrowth and stopped before me, rising up until its beady little eyes were on the same level as mine. "Curioussss … _You too are a Speaker, Chosen One_."

" _Chosen – what, me? Chosen for what?_ " … Plucking weeds?

The snake regarded me for another long, unnerving moment before commanding. " _Come with me, man child_."

" _Why_?" I demanded.

" _Because you belong with me and my master_."

It was the first time in my life that someone told me I _belonged_ somewhere, or with someone.

" _If you come with me, Master will take care of you, young Speaker_." The snake continued. " _You'll never be hungry; never cold; never looked down upon, for you're the heir of Slytherin_."

I didn't know what a Sliter-ring was, but I looked back at the Dursley house and remembered how much I hated my life as it was.

" _But if I … Aunt Petunia would be so …_ "

" _If you come with me, you'll have a family_." That did it. I bit down on the forbidden fruit and then some. The snake slithered slowly out of sight, beckoning me to follow. I threw the small bushel of weed high into the air and around Aunt Petunia's immaculate garden, running to keep up with the serpent, stranger danger all but forgotten. My life would never be the same.

* * *

For as long as I can remember, I've been Harry Salazar. The man I consider my father is revered by his associates as the Dark Lord. Somehow I sense that this arrangement wasn't meant to be. Father is an odd man; he all but flinched the first time I referred to him as Father. He almost had a panic attack the first time I called him Dad. He continues to glare death at me every time I force upon him those endearments, but has since relented after some six years of dogged insistence on my part. Father is not an easy man to sway, but I can be _very_ stubborn.

Since an early age, I've realized that Father is not exactly _nice_ to me. But then my old muggle Aunt and Uncle weren't nice to me either. From what I can remember, they were terrible. If I could get enough food to scrape by and escape a good cuffing by either my uncle or cousin, I'd be lucky. So Father's rather detached way of parenting has never bothered me. He's never been affectionate, but that's the pureblood way of life – Draco's father doesn't ever show open affection for him either. On some level, I'm confident that Father cares for me in his own way. After all, he's promised me the world – literally.

I met Draco Malfoy when we were both five years old. It was pure accident. Father had business with Uncle Lucius in the study, and I was left to my own devices in the drawing room until a boy around my age but slightly taller appeared at the doorway. He had ear-length straight blond hair – seemed like a Golden Retriever puppy's fur - so different from my unruly black curls that I had to reach out and pet it. It _felt_ like a Golden Retriever puppy's fur too. One of the Dursley's old neighbours had one of those dogs; it ran away whimpering as soon as I petted it. It was scared of me but not Dudley, imagine that. My small whale of a cousin kicked the puppy in the ribs when it came to him, tail wagging. Stupid dog.

"What's your name?" Draco asked, hair and temper both ruffled.

"Harry. Harry Salazar." I held out a hand, the way Father taught me to. Blondie didn't take it.

"Salazar is not a last name. It's a cuss word."

"It is a last name too. My father says we make our own names." I withdraw my hand, offended.

The Golden Retriever-haired boy sneered. "Well, _my_ father has taught me the names of all the respectable pureblood families in Europe, and Salazar isn't one of them."

We bicker for a few minutes and then stop. I was trying to figure out who started more sentences with the phrase "my father", Draco or me. What Draco was thinking about, I had little idea, but I knew right then that we would be the bestest of friends. We burst out in giggles. By the time the adult wizards returned, we were engaged in a vicious battle of wizarding chess, consisting of absolutely no rules and frequent commands for all pieces to charge at once. Stone pieces flew everywhere and Father considered leaving me at Malfoy Manor for good. Uncle Lucius coyly but adamantly refused.

* * *

I didn't get my Hogwarts entrance letter when Draco got his, back in mid-June. At first, we thought it was because I was a few months younger, but my eleventh birthday came and went and there was still no sign of ugly Hogwarts owls. I waited patiently the first two weeks, in jittery the third, and for the past few days, I've been practically bouncing off the walls, nervous as hell that I wouldn't get to attend the school founded by my namesake. Father's been so fed up with me that he kicked me out of the house and sent me on a Diagon Alley trip with Draco and Uncle Lucius. We know what supplies to purchase anyway.

Truly a wondrous feat, I've roped Draco and Uncle Lucius into riding the muggle subway. I never expected in a million years that they would agree, but then again, I can be _very stubborn_. The blonde-haired pureblood duo stand out on the tube like sore thumbs, but I blend in perfectly.

Despite Father's politics, I have always been fascinated by muggles, once I was saved from the reign of terror of three certain very disagreeable specimens. I love muggle technology especially; cars, planes, video games. Bombs. I talked Father into watching the live feed from Operation Desert Storm on television, and the American war planes lit up the sky and it was spectacular. But then I noticed Father's fists tighten; memories of very old planes dropping bomb after bomb on a very old London flood our mind link, and I was suddenly filled with worry for the little children of Bagdad. I was never more grateful that I've always kept my muggle toys out of Father's scrutiny.

Once we arrive at Diagon, Uncle Lucius disappears into Gringotts, leaving us to our own whims with pockets full of galleons. It was a pact agreed upon between the Malfoy father and son; Draco can be a shrewd negotiator too.

I accompany my best friend to the wand shop first, waiting outside since I already have a wand and I don't like the way Olivander used to look at me. I got my wand when I turned eight. The old wandmaker had me try more than a dozen useless twigs before getting to the right one, and then he kept going on about twin wands and greatness and terrible things. I understood none of it. The old man's gaze lingered for several moments too long on my lightning-bolt scar, and by then I was completely unnerved. I bolted right out of the shop once I paid, but Father told me not to worry about it.

I meet my first female friend at Madame Malkin's. I've done my bit of robes shopping a while ago, but Draco is taking practically forever. It's not like he doesn't have the finest clothes money can buy already … The bell chimes merrily as a bushy haired girl walks in.

"Hogwarts?" I question her lazily.

"Yes! You too? Oh my I am so excited!" The girl practically explodes. "Have you gotten all your books? They look amazing, especially the ones on Ari-Arithmancy. I've never known there was a whole world of magic before, you see, but I've read everything I can find on it and –" A muggleborn? I perk up in interest. I've heard about them but never met one. Draco gives the girl a look of disgust, muttering 'mudblood' as Madame Malkin swats his arms for him to keep still. The girl doesn't catch it.

"- Oh and I read _Hogwarts, A History_. Isn't the castle just fascinating? I can't wait to…"

"Yes, Hogwarts is an amazing place. I can't wait to see it myself too." I hastily put a stop to her gushing. "Father has told me all kinds of juicy secrets about the castle."

"Your parents went to Hogwarts?" Her eyes grow even larger. "That's amazing. My parents are dentists and I love them, but sometimes I wish …"

"My father went to Hogwarts, yeah, a …" I frown a little. "A while ago." Father has never told me his age, and it confuses the hell out of me as to _why_. It can't be that long ago that he was in school, I reason. For one, he _looks_ younger than Uncle Lucius.

Draco snickers at me, for _I_ 'm usually the one making fun of _his_ habit of bringing his dad into every conversation he ever makes. I suppose I'm a bit of a daddy's boy too, but who can blame me – Father is the most interesting person to walk this earth. He's a mystery, even to me; an enigma shrouded in masks and defences, a puzzle most inviting. And I live for challenges.

"I'm Hermione Granger." The little almost-witch holds out her hand. Draco again sneers at the muggle name. I ignore him and shakes the proffered hand warmly.

"Harry Salazar, at your service."

"Salazar? As in Salazar Slytherin?" She exclaims. The muggleborn has potential.

"Yes, exactly. Slytherin was the greatest of the four founders of Hogwarts." I beam at her. "And I'm going to take a snake with me as a familiar, since it's the House animal of Slytherin."

"But you are not allowed to." Hermione frowns at that. "Besides, snakes are dangerous. They are, sort of, sort of … evil." She bites out.

"Merlin! There is no good or e –" Then I stop. I am _not_ parroting Father to the first girl I might become friends with. The first girl that doesn't resemble Pansy Parkinson in any aspect. I hastily change the topic. "You like books, Hermione?"

She nods eagerly.

"Great. At home we have tons of books on all kinds of magic – and history. I can lend them to you someday and I'm sure you'd enjoy them." I smile at her encouragingly. "Plus, if we become friends, Draco and I will show you all about the magical world. Won't we, Draco?" The Malfoy heir submits to my pointed glance with a nod, and offers his hand to Hermione too, shaking hers quickly as if muggleborns were contagious.

"I-I'd love that. The books and, uh, becoming friends." I have a feeling she doesn't have many friends at the moment. That's all right; neither do I.

"I'll find you at the train station the day after tomorrow." I promise. "Or on the train. You know the way?"

"Nine and three quarters, isn't it? It says on the letter."

"Awesome." Draco has finally been released from the witch wielding the measuring tape, and he's tapping his foot impatiently for me to finish. "We'll see you there, Hermione."

* * *

Our last stop of the day is the pet shop. When I walk in, I'm still debating the merits of breaking the school rules even before I arrive, but the moment I lay eyes on a rather small albino cobra curled on a piece of rock, regal as a queen, I know this is it. Blast the rules; by Merlin I'm taking a snake to Hogwarts or I'm not going at all.

" _What's your name, queen of the jungle?_ "

Ruby eyes flash at the voice of a human Speaker; every snake I've met this far has had the same reaction. " _I don't have a name – I won't have a name until I have a master. And I've never seen the jungle for I've been in this shop my whole life. People don't like my colour_."

An image of a cupboard under the stairs flashes through my brain and I feel a sharp pang of empathy. " _I'll be your master and I'll give you a beautiful name to match your unique looks. And you'll have all the fun in the jungle if you come with me._ "

The cobra hisses her consent and I quickly pay the shopkeeper. He seems relieved to have the menacing looking snake off his hands. A few minutes later, Draco emerges from the other half of the shop, an eagle owl perching haughtily in a gold trimmed cage.

"Nice snake, Harry. What're you calling him?"

I consider the deathly white Indian cobra for a moment. "Hedwig. And it's a her."

"Hedwig?"

"Yes. It's a German name. There's this muggle novel that I've read, about a woman called Hedwig and she lived during World War Two when the Nazis …"

Draco shoots me a look of utter distaste and proceeds to tune me out, which suits me just fine. We go off to find Uncle Lucius and portkey home.

* * *

That night, I'm rudely woken up by alarms sounding all over the manor. Someone has breached the wards. It's never happened before since Father's ward-crafting skills are second to none – this must be serious. An attack by the Order, one day before school starts? Instantly wide-awake, I grab my wand from the nightstand and rush to the hallway. Strong hands lift me roughly and deposit me back in my room. " _Stay here and don't make a sound_." Father hisses quietly before locking the door with a flick of his hand. I know there's no getting out now, so the most I can do is curl up behind my bed, worried to death.

After what feels like an eternity, the lights flicker back on all through the manor and the blasted alarm stops. My door opens and Father walks in holding a half dead barn owl, muttering something about damned schools and their ancient magic.

"My letter!" I yelp in joy, all tenseness from the presumed attack forgotten. I snatch the crumpled piece of correspondence with a seeker's precision and a beater's fervour, completely ignoring Father's glare. Little do I know, the next minute, my whole existence is blasted to hell.

Hogwarts has gotten my name wrong. The letter is addressed to Harry Potter.


	2. Two - Not Slytherin

Two – Not Slytherin

* * *

"… Dad?" I stare at the piece of parchment, willing the ink to warp itself into different letters. A different name. "They-they got my name wrong. It says Harry Potter here. Must be a, a mistake, right?"

I look up with dumb hope, but what I see in Father's gleaming red eyes chills me to the bones.

"They made a mistake, right?" I ask again, still holding on to a glimmer of the illusion that everything's all right.

Father shakes his head minutely and my world comes crashing down.

I am Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. The man I call Father murdered my real parents.

"My parents were killed in a car crash. A muggle car crash." I repeat this over and over, trying to convince myself. "Aunt Petunia said my parents died in a car crash." But of course she lied about that and everything else.

Salazar is not a last name and Harry Salazar doesn't exist. . The man I call Father murdered my real parents. And _I killed him_.

"I thought you knew." Father says very, very quietly. For the first time in my life, I see him uncertain. Father's always been a hundred percent sure of everything.

"Of course I didn't know! My _relatives_ called me nothing but 'boy' or 'freak' for as long as I can remember! They told me magic doesn't exist! Did you think they'd tell me I'm the _hero_ of the entire wizarding kind?" I've read about the boy who survived the Killing Curse, but none of the papers said he had black hair and green eyes. None of them said he had a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. How was I to know?

I cringe as I realize I've just yelled at Father at the top of my lungs. I've never lost my temper with him before because I know he can hurt me; I've seen what he does with people that disrespect him. Not waiting for an answer, I bolt out of my room, making a beeline for the living room fireplace. Clamping down with my Occlumency shields and grabbing a handful of powder, I shout out "Malfoy Manor!"

I need to get out of here. Anywhere but here.

* * *

I don't remember making it to Draco's room, my feet carrying me mechanically over the path I've walked a thousand times before. The house elf that is supposed to greet me takes one look at my face and pops out of my sight. I'm certainly glad that it's not _Dobby_ ; that blasted elf would have the nerve to stop me and ask me _what's wrong_. What's wrong? I've just found out my whole life I've lived on a lie.

"Harry?" Draco is sitting up in his bed, looking at me through bleary but concerned eyes. I flop down on the bed beside him and start to cry.

Father doesn't allow me to cry. He thinks that crying, along with all open demonstrations of uncontrolled emotions, is _weak_ , and he doesn't tolerate weakness. But now I don't care about what he thinks anymore. In fact, I'd do about anything just to spite him.

Draco is startled out of his wits, the poor boy. After a good minute, he jumps out of bed and runs to fetch his father. Some time later, he pads back into his bedroom alone.

"Dad says you can stay; he's reported to your father already." Draco informs me cautiously. I don't answer, tears still streaming down my cheeks silently.

"Harry…" Draco tries again. "They told me what happened. I – Harry, why is this such a big deal?"

 _Why is this such_ – is he out of his mind? I whirl around to face the blond-haired boy, shaking with fury. Draco looks so scared right now that I wonder how I must look. Then something clicks in my mind.

"You knew all along?" I ask quietly. "You too, Draco?" _Et tu, Brute?_

"It doesn't change anything." Draco pleads. I drop down on the bed again with my back to him, resolutely burrowing into the duvet and shutting out the world. I end up falling asleep at some point.

* * *

The next day I don't wake up until close to noon. I don't run into Draco or Uncle Lucius anywhere in the manor. Aunt Narcissa takes lunch with me. She gives me those sad smiles but doesn't press me into conversation, and I'm eternally grateful for that. I spend most of the afternoon flying laps around the vast grounds of Malfoy manor, tracing the limit of the wards that surround the estate.

The Malfoys have really nice gardens; flying over them on my Nimbus 2000, I feel like the king of the world. At home in Little Hangleton we just have a patch of very angry-looking forest; I'm not allowed in there unless I'm with Nagini. The Malfoy estate is much more pleasant to the eye.

One lap doesn't take very long, but I go around over and over again. I don't come down until my hands are frozen solid and my face hurts; at least when the wind howls in my ears, I don't have to think. Nonetheless, I've made up my mind when I'm up in the clouds. Whether I'm Harry Potter or Harry Salazar is a moot point. People will always expect me to act a certain way, either as the Boy-Who-Lived or as the dark heir; it doesn't matter. I'm still me, just Harry, and I make my own name.

It doesn't mean I've come to terms with the most important person in my life though. Throughout the day, I've checked my Occlumency shields diligently – up and secure, all good. A few times, I can sense a familiar presence at the edge of the shields, hovering at the end of the mind link and making the mental equivalence of a polite knock. If Father wanted in, I'd have no chance in fighting him off, but as I refuse to answer, the presence disappears. My heart warms a little at that.

By dinner, Draco and Uncle Lucius have returned and we enjoy a last family meal together. My new purchases take up a small corner of the living room, along with several items my father has sent by floo. I'm a little embarrassed at the fact that I had my parent pack for me when I finally leave for boarding school. Regardless, I laugh and joke and talk about anything and everything I can think of. All three Malfoys still regard me closely as if I was a bomb waiting to go off. They don't realize it, but I might explode yet – from giddy happiness. I'm still really, _really_ excited to go to Hogwarts.

* * *

On September 1st, we arrive at King's Cross Station early. Muggle commuters file all around us, but most of them are in too much of a hurry to spare us a second glance. Once we step foot onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, however, everyone around us starts to whisper. They whisper about me, the Boy-Who-Lived, but they also wonder about what Harry Potter is doing with the _Malfoys_ , traditionally Dark and suspected of supporting the Dark Lord. They'd never guess the truth in a million years.

My scar is a dead giveaway. Last night, I pleaded with Uncle Lucius to conceal it for me, but he immediately replied that it's not possible – you can't glamour a curse scar. So I have to wear it proudly on my forehead, proof that I'm the only one in history to survive Avada Kadevra. The one Father fired at me when I was one year old.

The scarlet steam engine is as impressive as I imagined it would be – an epic union of magic and muggle technology. But as more people pile onto the platform and more eyes bear holes into my back, I find myself not in the mood to enjoy the sight anymore. I can't wait to get onto the train and hence enjoy some relative privacy.

Draco and his father share a proper pureblood goodbye – a terse one, that is; I've always found the proper way rather awkward. Aunt Narcissa, on the other hand, pulls us both into warm hugs. I find myself wishing, briefly, that Father was here to share this moment, even though the most he'll do is give me a nod in farewell – until I remember I should _hate_ him by all means.

Draco and I are among the earliest kids onboard and we find an empty compartment with no trouble. I settle down by the window, intent on losing myself in this new muggle mystery novel I got by owl post the other day. Draco leaves to say hello to his other friends, all the other baby _Death Eater_ s. (I'm still trying to figure out what Father was high on when he made up _that_ name for his followers.) When Draco returns, his face is another shade of white.

"Harry, do you think – is it possible that the Dark Lord doesn't trust me?"

I snort. "Father doesn't trust _you_? Why, you are all of eleven years old and several hundred spells away from becoming a Body Snatcher."

"Death Eater." Draco corrects me very seriously.

"Same difference." I wave it off. "Now, what's got your knickers in a twist?"

Draco sighs dramatically. "Greg and Vince just came to me and pledged their undying loyalty. They're going to follow me _everywhere_ at Hogwarts."

I laugh manically. "Oh-oh Draco, that's definitely more _your_ father's doing than mine. Little dragon needs big bad bodyguards at school, yeah? Coz he's never been out of the nest before…"

Draco's cheeks are now a bright red. The blush looks good on him; gives him some much-needed colour. Quite abruptly, I change the topic to a more serious one.

"Do you reckon they know? Your other _friends_?"

"That you're Harry Potter? Probably. Pansy and Blaise definitely have the wits to have figured it out." Yet they don't know who my father is, so we're safe for now. "You know, not everyone has lived in an ivory tower their whole life like you have…"

"Oh shut up, Drakey-poo." That's Pansy's nickname for Draco, who hates it with a passion.

Before he can retaliate, our compartment door suddenly slams open, and a frantic, round-faced boy pokes his head in.

"Trevor? Trevor, are you here?" He looks up at us and blushes. "Oh, I'm looking for Trevor, my toad. Have you seen him?" Draco and I shake our heads, amused. The boy lets out a strangled cry and disappears. We can hear him bound up and down the hallway, still calling for his toad as if toads actually had ears.

"Should I _Accio_ Trevor for him? He doesn't seem quite right in the head."

"Nah, don't bother, Harry. Unless you summon the toad and _Crucio_ it in front of him right after." Draco drawls lazily. "That's Neville Longbottom. His parents were bloodtraitors - Aurors and members of Dumbledore's Order. Aunt Bella did a number on them, though; they had it coming."

I can't help but shudder. Aunt Bella … is a crazy woman and I try to stay as far away from her as possible. She's been residing at Malfoy Manor since the Azkaban breakout three years ago – she's not quite right in the head either, and her poor sister, Aunt Narcissa, has to take care of her. Aunt Bella seems to have a crush on Father, which I find _very_ disturbing.

Determined to do anything Aunt Bella would not do, I whip out my wand and step into the hallway with a smirk. " _Accio_ Trevor!" In a moment, two living objects fly towards me: an ugly, ugly toad and a skinny, very pissed-off boy. I carefully levitate the toad a good feet away from my body while attempting to apologize to the boy. He walks off with a huff.

"Trevor!" Longbottom catches his toad with such grace and vigour that he can probably try out for Seeker. Then he stumbles and I wince. Ouch.

"Thank you so much! I'm Neville Longbottom, and –" His eyes grow comically wide. "And you are …!"

"I am …?" I raise an eyebrow.

"You're Harry Potter!"

I smack myself on the forehead. _But of course_! "Oh him. I mean, yes, I suppose I am." I mutter impassively. How in Salazar's name does _everyone_ know what Harry Potter looks like but I didn't? The detective novel part of me screams conspiracy. "Nice to meet you, Neville. You should put a leash on that toad." Then I half step back into our compartment and declare loudly.

"I – I'm going to find my female friend, Draco." I traverse the length of the train twice until I locate the bushy-haired girl at one of the entrances. Along with a brown-haired man with glasses that must be her dentist father, she's having the struggle of a lifetime getting her giant trunk on the train. I quickly shrink it and put on a feather-light charm. The two jump back with a shriek, not used to such casual magic.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaims with a huge smile on her face. Her teeth are a bit funny, like a rabbit's, but I find them kind of cute. "Thank God you're here; we wouldn't know _how_ to get this monster of a trunk on to the train!"

"My pleasure, Miss Granger." I mock a little bow. Merlin, why do I act like such a snobbish pureblood? But Hermione blushes a beautiful red and her father laughs heartily, so all is good. I shake hands with Mr. Granger, watch them hug goodbye, and lead Hermione back to our compartment. All along the way, the little witch talks about one thing or another she's read in _Hogwarts: A History_. I wonder if she's heard of the Chamber of Secrets.

Draco seethes at my bringing a muggleborn witch into our circle, but is politely enough to just ignore her. As a responsible guide to the magical world, I sit Hermione down and begin to explain to her the most ancient and noble game of Exploding Snap.

* * *

A few minutes later, our door slides open again and a redheaded boy with too big robes peers in carefully. He's dragging a rather run-down trunk behind him. "All the other compartments are full. If you fellows don't mind …?"

"Oh of course I mind, _Weasley_." Draco snarls, biting on the last name as if it was a cuss word. Then I recall from one of Draco's many blood purity rants that the Weasleys are a family of poor, Light purebloods who have no sense of shame and way too many children. Like rabbits, Draco's told me.

"Nonsense, Draco." I smile at the boy. "Come on in, we have one more seat left."

The redhead moves to settle on the seat next to Draco, and the Malfoy heir bounds up as if scorched. "I am not sitting in the same compartment as a mudblood _and_ a bloodtraitor!" He puffs out his chest and draws to his full height – which is not nearly as intimidating as he likes to think.

"Door's right there, Draco. Do you miss Vince and Greg already?" I said sweetly, and Draco starts to blanch. "Oh, wait, you'd prefer the company of the lovely Miss Parkinson!"

Draco hastens to sit down by the window. Neither of us has ever enjoyed the company of Miss Pansy Parkinson. We've surmised that her greatest goals in life are to marry Draco right out of school and eat me alive.

The redhead is looking at Draco and me as if we're crazy. "Oh, how rude of us." I hold out my hand, determined to get this over with. "My name is Harry Potter, and you've probably heard of me as the Boy-Who-Lived. I know you're a Weasley, but which one are you and how many siblings do you have?"

"Uh…" The boy stares at me. "I'm Ronald. No, _Ron_ – no one calls me Ronald. I have five brothers and a sister." Wow, that many? Draco mutters something about rodents.

Some light returns to the redhead's eyes. "And you're Harry Potter!"

Salazar! Was I not being clear enough?

Ron stands up and disposes of his trunk. "Do you play Quidditch?" is the first thing he asks me.

"Yes! Draco and I are both Seekers. Do you?"

"Of course! Quidditch is life, mate! I usually play Keeper at home, but I bet I'd do as good a job as Beater. Speaking of, did you see Roger's last goal for the Canons last Sunday?"

"You bet! That's only the very best fake and V-pass since –"

"- the 1968 World Cup semi-finals!" Ron and I finish together, grinning hugely at each other. Bloodtraitor or not, there may be some hope for Ron Weasley yet. Even Draco glances at him with appreciation; Merlin knows Draco follows Quidditch scores the way teenage witches follow Witch Weekly.

"Exploding Snap?" I ask Ron as the train leaves the bustling city behind.

"Why not?" He reaches for a card in my proffered deck. It explodes promptly in his face.

* * *

The rest of the train journey passes in relative peace. Even Draco has come out of his sulking and joined in our games, and I'm in a particularly good mood – until the Sorting, that is.

Standing before the doors to the Great Hall with all the nervous first years, I suddenly want to be sick. I deeply regret having so much candy on the train. At Ron's unbridled envy and Hermione's admonishment – dentists' daughter, go figure – Draco and I bought off half of the trolley and demolished a good portion of the loot. It's a part of Hermione's magical education, after all, but now I want to hurl. The witch who called herself Professor McGonagall looks like she eats misbehaving first years for a living. The children go in for their sentencing one by one, until there is only about a dozen left.

"Potter, Harry." The stern old witch calls out, and the hall explodes in chatter. _That is not my name_ , I hiss in pure instinct. All the eyes are on me, and I feel like I might simultaneously combust from the intensity. Gritting my teeth, I walk towards the centre of the room, attempting to emulate the way Father would walk into a crowded ballroom and everybody would stop talking all at once. No luck; they see me and the chatter becomes twice as loud. I climb onto the stool, my feet dangling, and McGonagall places the raggedy old hat on my head.

"Ah, a difficult one, Mr. Pott-"

"Not. My. Name." I hiss out. "Salazar. Harry Salazar."

"Fine then, Mr. _Salazar_. With that kind of name, I would assume you want to be in S-"

"Not Slytherin." I state vehemently.

"Not Slytherin? But why not, my boy? You are a Speaker, and your father –"

"My father," I interrupt the Sorting Hat for the third time. "Is a murderer, a bastard, a lying git, and I will _not_ be placed in his slimy house of snakes. So no, _not Slytherin_."

"All right. You sure are smart enough, but you're also brave enough to stand up for yourself. You've rejected your destiny, but I believe you'll still find greatness in –" Before I realize what is happening, the Hat screams out "- Gryffindor!" I gape with unconcealed horror as a sea of red and gold rise up, roaring and cheering to welcome the bloody Boy-Who-Lived into the pride. As I walk down the isle to join the House of my nightmare, the full weight of what I've done crashes down like a tsunami and I vow I will burn that cursed Hat at some point in my school career. Draco, unhelpful little prick that he is, gives me an amused look that says "you're _dead_ when your father finds out." As if I needed him to remind me.

"Harry!" Ron shoots up from his seat among the first years. "Welcome to Gryffindor!" He pulls me to the table and gives me a bear hug – a bear hug, and I've only known him for half a day! These lions, unbelievable. Eyes shining, Ron presents me to a string of redheads, Fred, George, and Percy, who's wearing a Prefect's badge. Neville and Hermione are on the other side of the table, grinning at me widely. Then everyone else introduces themselves and I am lost in a sea of new names and faces. I've never talked to this many people in my life! Everyone wants to speak to me. One of their first questions throws me off.

"… defeated You-Know-Who?"

"You-Know-Who?" And who's that?

"Well, you probably don't remember, but still … " The boy – Dean? – says uncertainly. Then it clicks for me – of course that's the only thing they're interested in; Vanquisher of the Dark Lord right here.

"I don't remember, sorry." I smile apologetically. "Also I've never heard anyone call him You-Know-Who."

"Really? What do you call him then?" Ron asks in equal parts incredulity and apprehension.

Dad. Or Father when I'm reminded of pureblood etiquette. 'Sir' when I've done something wrong and 'the Dark Lord' when I'm feeling sarcastic. "Lord Voldemort." I reply simply, taking pleasure in their collective gasps and flinches.

"Don't say his name!" Neville calls out. I shrug. Where is that Gryffindor courage now?

But they recover quickly, and begin shooting off all kinds of questions again. The feast thus goes by in a blur, and by the end of it, I'm confident I'll never slip up and forget I'm _Harry Bloody Potter_ ever again.

As we all file out of the Great Hall, following the Gryffindor Prefect like little lemmings, I sense someone staring at my back. Turning around, I meet a pair of sapphire blues that seem to … twinkle. I register a faint brush of Legilimency in my mind; the old man isn't trying at all and I shake off his probe easily, making a mental note not to meet the Headmaster's eyes in the near future. I haven't succeeded in completely repelling Father's _Legilimens_ yet, and odds are Dumbledore is as much of a master in the mind arts.


	3. Three - Searching

**A/N: Not the most exciting chapter, but I hope it's still fun most of the time?**

 **In the next instalment, Harry meets a Very Important Person, and there's is a lot more snark. I'll probably post it tomorrow.**

 **Review please? :P**

* * *

Three – Searching

* * *

"Harry …" Ron stutters with utter mortification. "Th-that's a s-snake … on your bed."

"An Indian Cobra, actually." I glance at Hedwig; she's still asleep, I think. "But all right, I guess a snake is an accurate description." All my dorm mates have their eyes on me now, varying degrees of horror on their faces. "Hedwig is my familiar." I explain.

"But, but you're not allowed snakes at Hogwarts!" Dean cries.

"Don't tell anybody then." I reply nonchalantly.

Poor Neville looks like he might faint, but he still blurts out. "But there's a reason why they're not allowed! Snakes are, are _deadly_!"

"Hedwig won't bite unless I tell her to." The boys don't look reassured at all, somehow. Stirring from sweet dreams upon hearing her name, Hedwig senses the four boys staring at her. Immediately, she draws up to her full height and flares her hood, fangs bare and red eyes gleaming. Funny; Father has an eerily similar expression when he's mad. My roommates all yelp and step back, as expected.

" _Hedwig, down! Do you fancy getting us both expelled on the first da_ y?"

" _But Master_ –"

" _No buts! To your box!_ " The cobra gives me a rueful look – a serpentine pout? - before slithering off my bed. Last night before lights out, I set up a self-refreshing miniature snake habitat beside my bed. Calling it a 'box' is a great understatement. Hedwig's getting used to being pampered already.

Grinning at my strict discipline, I turn back to my dorm mates. "See? She listens to me." The looks on the boys' faces tell me that I've just traumatized them for life.

"You can speak to snakes." Ron whispers.

"I've noticed. So?" Nobody answers.

"All right!" I make a sloppy loop with my hideous red and gold tie. "Are you fellows not _starving_?"

* * *

Breakfast, thankfully, is a much tamer event that last night's Welcoming Feast. I break off from the Gryffindors and walk straight to the far end of the Slytherin table, where Draco and his two bodyguards sit.

"Harry! Still alive after a night with the pride?" Draco smirks evilly. I smirk right back.

"Still at the bottom of the Slytherin hierarchy, Drakey?" Unlike the Lions, the Snakes have their seating arrangements strictly according to social standing in the House; it's obvious if you know what to look for. The first years are near the end of the long table, only higher in hierarchy than the odd balls and occasional muggleborns that somehow made it into Salazar's House.

"It's only been one night." Draco grunts vehemently.

"It's all right, Draco. I still love you, as does Pansy." He grimaces. "Although, if you sew your family name on your lapel, it might help your social ascension." I duck and easily evade a swat on the head by a rolled-up _Daily Prophet_. Too bad; swatting puppies and obnoxious friends is about the only thing that paper is good for.

Before Draco can strike again, a woman's voice sends chills down my spine. "Mr. Potter, you're not sitting with your housemates."

"No, Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry." I school my features into that befitting a reprimanded little boy. "I just wanted to talk with Draco here; trade stories, you know. We've known each other since forever and it's a little hard to be in different Houses." I know better than to antagonize professors on my first day, although it seems that my very presence causes strong emotions in certain people.

McGonagall's still regarding me skeptically, but she lets it go with the simple advice that I should try making more friends in my own House too. I nod eagerly until she's out of earshot.

"Suave." Draco mouths.

"Of course. But what does she have against me?"

"Oh I don't think she's against you personally. Just suspicious, probably." Draco offers sagely. I sigh.

A great commotion breaks out as I poke at the sausage on my plate miserably. Post owls of every colour and breed swoop into the Great Hall, most of them bearing packages containing items the students forgot at home. Draco's mighty eagle owl drops a letter on his lap, then asks for my piece of sausage by perching near my plate politely. I offer it to him with a chuckle; only the Malfoys can possibly own _owls_ that have perfect table manners. "Good boy, Aragorn."

Draco starts shooting me murder. "For the last time, Harry, it's bad enough for your snake but you're NOT naming _my_ owl after a muggle novel character!"

"But it suits him – lone ranger of the North, no?" I pout. "Do you have a better name?"

Draco draws up blank. He's not overly adept at naming things _and_ he aspires to join the ranks of Body Snatchers.

"On the other hand, are your parents seriously writing you letters _already_?"

"What, jealous?" Draco tears into the envelope eagerly. "And I _have_ to report on _your_ every move too, don't I?"

Figured.

"Have you talked to your father at all?"

"No." I answer shortly. "Not planning on doing it anytime soon."

Draco lowers his voice. "You should really write to him, or do your mind link thing, whatever. Just do it before he does something drastic, yeah?"

"Drastic? What's he gonna do – blow up the school?" I laugh a bit too loudly. "Now that would be fun, wouldn't it?" Several other Slytherins are shooting us odd looks. At this point, Daphne, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise saunter over to join us.

"What did you say to the Hat to land yourself in Gryffindor, Harry?" Pansy opens with a sneer that's reserved for me. "Called it ugly?"

"Why, Pansy, I don't think the Hat would've _minded_ even if I'd called it ugly – unlike you, I might add." Pansy glares and Draco snickers. I do hope these two don't end up getting married.

"You should play nice with the ladies, _Potter_." Blaise admonishes, a little too serious for my liking. His use of my other name, I definitely don't approve of.

"Don't call me that, Zabini." I lower my voice somewhat dangerously and Blaise doesn't press it.

The baby Death Eaters and I share an intricate relationship. In some ways, we go way back, but I only see them several times a year, usually when we're all trapped in the Kiddie Room at some elite social gathering of European purebloods. They've never quite accepted me as a friend. Theo Nott and Milly Bulstrode are as spoiled as they come. Blaise tends to engage in unnecessary power struggles with Draco. Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle don't quite have the capacity to think for themselves; they do whatever their fathers tell them to do, and have the unfortunate tendency to defer to Draco as well. I actually find Daphne Greengrass quite tolerable, but Pansy – Pansy is on another level. She sometimes reminds me of Aunt Bella and I can't talk to her for two minutes without my self-preservation instincts kicking in.

I've always attributed their coldness towards me to my dubious origins and blood integrity – Uncle Lucius introduced me as the adopted charge of one of Aunt Narcissa's distant relatives, here to learn the intricacies of British pureblood Society. Throwing in the Harry Potter persona, I can certainly see why they've never been eager to be friends with me.

Quite tired of this crowd's power plays by now, I ask casually. "What's first period?"

"Harry, we don't have class together. Lions and Snakes, remember?"

I grumble all the way as I head to the Gryffindor table. All the red and gold clad first year boys are eyeing me warily.

"Your, your snake …" Ron begins. "Won't eat my rat, will she?"

"Nah, Hedwig is a very picky eater." I wave it off, not the least bit concerned. "She doesn't like house rats; says they're way too chewy and not nearly juicy enough. Can't blame her, yeah?" I notice that nobody within earshot touches the sausages after that.

"What's first period?" I ask again.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts." Neville reads out from his schedule, grimacing. "With the _Slytherins_." Draco, that moron. We're having first period together after all.

"Defence _against_ the dark arts? Wouldn't that be fun!" I declare. "Ron, walk with me." The redhead seems like he doesn't want to be anywhere near me, but I drag him by the sleeve so he hardly has a choice.

* * *

At the end of the first school day, I find myself at the entrance of the Hogwarts library. If I'm lucky, this place holds the secret to my life.

I need to know why Father targeted my parents and I all those years ago. I mean, sure, the Potters were Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, pesky things for the Dark side. But why would the Dark Lord himself, at the height of the first war, feel to need to carry out a hit like that alone? There's something more to it, I'm sure. But since I can't just up and ask anyone on either side without giving away too much, I decide to start with the printed word.

My eyes light up as I walk further in and take in rows upon rows of books and periodicals, holding so many of the secrets of the world – until I realize I don't know the first thing about searching spells. I have my own study at home and Father's private collection is off-limits for me since most of those books can be detrimental to my health. Sighing, I retrace my steps and think up a plan to cozy up to the librarian.

"Mr. Potter, what can I help you with?" Madam Pince, as the placard suggests, looks up from a heavy tome on her desk. She looks nice enough – for a librarian that is.

"Madam, I wonder if you'll be so kind to show me how to find things in the library?" I give her my most winning smile.

"Oh, that'd be my pleasure, but there is really no need, Mr. Potter." She replies. "You'll be learning how to use the library with one of your classes, in about … two weeks' time."

Two weeks? I can't wait that long! This is life and death for me, witch! Can't you see? But of course she can't; she has no idea I have a potentially homicidal parent and guardian. Father wanted me dead a decade ago, but somehow he doesn't want that anymore – _probably_ doesn't want that anymore, or else he's wasted seven long years of excruciating co-existence with a growing boy. Father seems like the kind of person that hated children even when he was one of them. So the only question is _why_? What has changed? What made the Potters special?

"But, Madam, I started this very interesting project on wizarding history back in the summer, and I just can't wait to keep working on it. I'd find so many useful books in this _amazing_ library!" I try on my 'puppy dog eyes'; they always seemed to work on Aunt Narcissa. "If you don't mind, could you just teach me how to search for things? I'm a fast learner, promise."

It works. For the next hour and a half, I trail after Madam Pince as she explains to me useful spells and the wonders of the library. Once she gets started on the latter part, she can't stop. I nod eagerly every step on the way, and have to come up with random facts about my research on the spot. By the end of the tour, I have a very promising fake project on the effects of Grindelwald's war on half-blooded children.

As most students and even the librarian herself leave for dinner, I make my way to the periodicals section. " _Present Lily Potter or James Potter or Harry Potter or Boy-Who-Lived in 1981_." I intone and neon green highlights go up like fireworks. Without a second though, I tear into the articles with the fervour of a mad scientist. I put back newspaper after newspaper and wave off the search markers one by one until I finally realize -

It's no use. The articles don't help at all. I'm fed up with proclamations of the heroic defeat of You-Know-Who by a one-year-old Harry Potter and the end of the war. I've gained ample information on the life and death of Lily Evans and James Potter: graduating from Hogwarts in 1976, a happy marriage one year later, top of their classes in Auror training, valued members of Dumbledore's Order, yada yada.

Yet nothing answers my question on why the Dark Lord would want the Potter family dead in particular. I'm no closer to the truth than when I started.

Looking around me with frustration, I notice that there is one neon green highlight left. It's a funny looking magazine on the bottom shelf, and I have to almost crawl to get at it. One look at the cover page have me laughing hysterically – the irony! I'm holding in my hands a prized copy of the Quibbler. Doubting if there is ever anything of value printed under that title, I give the funky magazine a try anyway.

The article is not long, but it takes me a while to get the gist of it because the words, in true Quibbler fashion, are moving around the page in an imitation of a conga line. "A _prophecy_?" I squint harder. "A prophecy about … Harry Potter … and – and _Neville Longbottom_?"

So it was about me and not my birth parents after all? But I can't see how Neville possibly has anything to do with this. Moreover, prophecies are lies for the faint-hearted, aren't they? Father himself has always despised Divination. Surely at the height of his power, he wouldn't have acted rashly based on a _prophecy_?

Dismissing such an outlandish idea, I put the old magazine back in the little dark corner where it belongs. Perhaps I need to have a talk with Dumbledore after all. If anyone has an inkling of the Dark Lord's motives – and I can't ask Father or any of his trusted advisors - it's probably the leader of the Light.

By this point, it's already pitch dark outside and the older students are well into their evening study halls. I slowly pad back to library entrance, where Madam Pince gives me an amused look.

"Doing research all this time?"

"Yes, Madam, I found a lot of interesting articles." I smile tiredly.

"Good boy! Now are you sure you shouldn't be in Ravenclaw?"

 _Well I wish I was!_ As it is, I head towards Gryffindor Tower, with a furiously growling stomach to match my crappy mood.


	4. Four - A Tricky Thing

**A/N: Look, another update in just six hours! I really do go a mile a minute when I write in Harry's PoV :)**

 **Again ... please review? o.O**

* * *

Four – A Tricky Thing

* * *

It's hate at first sight.

From the first minute of our first Potions class, I know that Severus Snape is out for my blood. It's true that Potions has never been my favourite subject – I never found the patience in me to follow each step to the word, and Merlin knows how much my old tutor has to say about that. In all honesty, however, I'm not _pathetic_ in the subject, either.

Snape somehow makes it look like I can't tell a bazoar from a manelphil. Every class, I lose a healthy amount of House points for Gryffindor - for being too smart or too dumb when I speak, too loud or too quiet with my partner, too fast or too slow in my potion brewing – he always manages to finds _something_.

The first time he insults my father, I'm quite stunned. This man either has no idea who Father is, or has a very avid death wish. Wait, isn't Snape actually rumoured to be a Death Eater? Then I realize something – he's talking about _James Potter_.

That's so twisted! And unfair! I don't even know the man, and I'm paying for whatever he did to this deranged, children-hating professor all these years ago. And yes, if another adult comes up to me and coos about how much I look like James save for my eyes – I have 'my mother's eyes' – I might actually barf.

The only upside of my war of attrition with Snape is that I've become sort of a hero among first-year Gryffindors – even more of a hero, considering my Boy-Who-Lived status. The Lions are beyond pride that one of them is brave enough to stand up to the Greasy Git; they're even willing to overlook our hemorrhaging House points if it means Snape doesn't always get the last word. We take our losses in stride since Snape only pulls the professor card when he has no better comeback.

* * *

The first two weeks pass quickly.

I count the minutes, the hours, the days that go by, and Dumbledore still doesn't call me in for a _talk_. Surely he suspects something about my whereabouts for the last seven years? If not then what kind of a Light Lord is he? It takes all my self-control not to track down his office and demand answers to my questions.

The classes, especially the practical parts, don't pose any trouble for me since my old tutor has taught me well. But with Hermione and Draco outdoing themselves at every turn, I'm inclined to work hard as well.

Professor McGonagall is a fine teacher, even though her class is easy for me. She doesn't look like she wants to eat me anymore now that I'm all chummy with the Lions. And I have to admit that being able to turn into a sleek feline on a whim is pretty neat. Gives a whole new meaning to 'cat lady'.

Defence Against the Dark Arts has turned out to be disappointing. At the rate this class is going, I'll never be of any help to Father in a million years. Quirrell is passable at teaching – if passable can be interpreted as absolutely mediocre.

"Professor Quirrell, are you very familiar with the magic of Ancient India?"

"No … but I've been there once. Modern India also has a vibrant wizarding society."

"Then why do you wear a turban, Professor Quirrell?"

"Mr. P-Potter! That is n-none of your bu-business."

Sure, the man has travelled to interesting places and learned exotic magic, but he tends to stutter whenever students ask questions he can't answer. And I _always_ ask questions that professors can't answer.

Draco, meanwhile, has an axe to grind with Hagrid, the Hogwarts groundskeeper and our Care for Magical Creatures teacher.

"What do you have against the half giant, anyway? It's not like you knew him from before."

"He's a half-giant working for the Light, Dumbledore's pawn. By all means, he and his people should side with us."

I make a face. The Malfoys and their politics. "Since when are you this political about _everything_?"

"And it's not just that. His class is simply the most useless thing we have to sit – stand through."

That might be true. Up till now, the only 'magical' creature we've learned to care for is rats; I don't find it very stimulating either.

"We have to start somewhere."

"We shouldn't need to know how to care for those foul creatures at all." Draco says venomously. "We have _groundskeepers_ for this kind of thing, if we absolutely _have_ to raise animals for one reason or another."

"Yeah, right. And what do you Malfoys keep those peacocks for? Security?"

" _Aesthetics_." Draco mutters darkly. "Not that _you_ would know anything about that branch of philosophy."

I laugh casually, shrugging off the insult. Personally, I find Hagrid quite endearing - he seems to favour Gryffindors indiscriminately. Between Hermione and I, we manage to salvage some of the House points we lose in Potions. I would, of course, be more willing to spend time with the half giant had he not broken down in tears and recounted how he carried me in a bundle out of a burning house after our very first class. Melodramatic or not, I'm touched by his devotion to my birth parents and even me.

On Friday afternoon, we arrive at Care for Magical Creatures early. The half giant is lounging on the front porch of his hut, enjoying a long pull from his pipe. A large black dog sunbathes lazily beside him. When I approach, it jumps right up, tail wagging enthusiastically.

I reach out and rumple its unruly black fur all over. The dog really is large, reaching up to my shoulder easily with its muzzle. I bend down a little and get a sloppy dog kiss on the face.

"Eww, boy, you're friendly!" I wipe at my face with my sleeve and catch Draco's look of complete disgust. "What's his name, Professor Hagrid?"

The half giant beams down at me from his perch. "Padfoot's his name; a real gem, I tell ya."

The dog lies down before me, inviting me to scratch his stomach. I duly comply.

Draco settles himself beside me, a safe distance away from the canine. "Just what is with you and _dogs_?"

"Dogs are awesome. I wonder if Father will let me get one?" I make a move to pet Draco's hair, now glowing a brilliant silvery-gold in the afternoon sun. He flinches away in great alarm.

"You were just touching that dog!"

"I think I'll ask for a Golden Retriever pup, with the finest blond fur, and have Aunt Narcissa groom him; she has experience anyway …"

That earns me a rather painful punch in the arm.

"Forget it, Harry. Your father will never allow a dog in the house. Besides, Nagini would just eat the whelp on sight."

He's probably right about the last part. Padfoot, who's been listening to our conversation with a dog's attentiveness, suddenly shies away.

"What's wrong, boy?" I ask with worry.

The dog steps back. I might be imagining things, but when Padfoot looks into my eyes, he seems … incredibly sad. By now, most students have arrived. The dog runs back into Hagrid's hut without a backward glance, and I have to go join my Gryffindor crew.

* * *

On Friday night, I have trouble falling sleep. My dorm mates have the most unfortunate tendency to snore, and after I grab my wand and cast silencing charms around my bed, I don't feel so sleepy anymore. The next moment, I'm struck by another Very Bright Idea – these ideas usually end _very_ badly, but I never learn – and make my way to the common room. Once there, I cast a Disillusionment Spell on myself. This is the hardest spell I've mastered so far. Father taught it to me over the summer, and it took me weeks to get it right – we both expected that it would come in very handy once I get to school.

And now I'm free to explore the castle after hours. I don't have a particular destination in mind, but finding the entrance to the kitchen might be nice. These days, I'm always hungry, and the next time I forget to grab dinner, I won't have to go without. Father told me he visited the kitchen elves sometimes when he worked late into the night, but apparently the entrance has moved places. I tried the old spot on my first day and was sorely disappointed.

I don't make it very far on my quest. On the third floor, a classroom has its door ajar. That's odd since classrooms are supposed to be locked after curfew. Peering in cautiously, I see a rectangular shape in the otherwise empty room. There is no light in the room, yet the shape seems emit a soft glow, strong enough for me to make out that it's a full-body mirror. Stepping into the room, I can now see the intricate runes and carvings and it's suddenly clear – I have in front of me the Mirror of Erised! The subject of so many wizarding fairy tales; an artefact infused with such powerful Old Magic that it can see straight into one's heart. Giddy with excitement, I let my disillusionment drop and step in front of the mirror.

The scene that stares back at me takes my breath away. I see myself, surrounded by people. A clan of messy black hair, some with glasses. The woman with the flaming hair and emerald eyes stand out like a goddess. _Lily Evans_ , I realize with a hitch. _Mum_. She looks absolutely beautiful. The man beside her has to be James Potter. Those remarkably annoying adults are right for once – I do look exactly like him, save for the eyes. In the mirror, I wear round glasses, exactly the same as James'. The man has his hands on my shoulders; winking, he messes up my hair with playfulness more fitting for an older brother than a dad. Father would never do something like that, I realize. The way these two look at the mirror Harry can only be described as … _love_. Love is a weakness – isn't it? But this woman and man gave their lives for me … The people behind them are all talking and laughing, completely relaxed. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins … a f _amily_. I start to panic.

But that's not what I desire! It can't be! I don't even _know_ these people! I take a deep breath and concentrate very hard. When I open my eyes, the scene in the mirror has changed.

Father is waiting for me on the King's Cross platform at the end of June, standing tall and proud without a glamour on. The Dark has taken over and we no longer need to stay in the shadows. I show him the Top of Form medal around my neck, and Father smiles that genuine smile that's only meant for me and whispers: "One down, six to go…"

I sense powerful auras behind me. Turning around, I find myself face to face the Headmaster.

"Harry."

"Professor Dumbledore." I stand up slowly, keeping calm even though I've just been caught out of bed after curfew. Dumbledore doesn't seem to care.

"My boy, do you know what this mirror does?" He walks toward me but stops at a comfortable distance.

"Yes, sir. It shows one's deepest desire." I glance back at the mirror, frowning. "But, sir, it didn't show _my_ deepest desire, well, at least not at f-"

Dumbledore breaks me off with a chuckle. "Ah, but sometimes we don't _know_ what we truly desire, do we? It's buried deep in our hearts, and the heart is a tricky thing."

But I made the mirror change what it shows me! I wanted to say. It's _my_ choice. I control my heart and I know what I wish for. Then I remind myself that the old coot doesn't need to know. "I guess it is, sir." I look down at the ground as if at a loss.

"You'll see when you're older, Harry." The Headmaster smiles indulgently. "Now, we have a little problem in the form of curfew…"

I snap to attention quickly. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I'm heading right back."

"Make sure you do, my boy." I make to leave but the old man calls out again. "And Harry? The mirror can't _giv_ e you what you desire, but remember what you see in it so you can find it someday."

I whisper a "Yes, sir" and runs all the way to the Gryffindor Tower. I'm never going back to that room again.

* * *

The next morning, I'm still rather shaken by my encounter with the Mirror of Erised. I pointedly walk past the Gryffindor table and sit down on the far end of the Slytherin one. With no appetite whatsoever, I conjure a piece of parchment and start to write.

 _Father,_

 _Draco has convinced me to write to you before you do anything drastic, like sending a howler. Uncle Lucius must have told you about my new position in the House of Rabid Lions. I assure you it was not my intention. I did argue with the Sorting Hat over not wanting to be in Slytherin since I was very angry with you then, but I fully expected to be in Ravenclaw. I'll make sure to burn the talking Hat at some point._

 _Life is all right. Classes are easy. I'm still mad at you, by the way. Don't expect me back for Christmas._

 _Harry_

 _P.S.: Can you tell me how to get to the Chamber of Secrets?_

Draco stands beside me and shamelessly reads over my shoulder. That little prat.

"But you _have to_ go back – you are coming to the Yule Ball, remember? We are supposed to make our debuts this winter."

I groan. It is a pureblood tradition to have their children, boys and girls alike, make a debut to society after their first term at their magical school. This year is our year, and I fully suspect Father will take this chance to make public my identity as his heir. He's dramatic like that.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." I sagely impart my life motto; one of them, at least. "It's nice out today. Quidditch?"

Draco never says no to that.


	5. Five - The Quest and Lemon Drops

As we get ready for bed on Saturday night, a neatly folded letter appears in the muggle lunchbox I keep on my nightstand. This was my real summer project; with Father's help, I charmed the box so that I can exchange letters and small objects with him instantaneously. Owls are so last century. Don't these wizards know that even muggles use 'e-mail' nowadays?

 _Harry,_

 _As unfortunate as it is, your position in Gryffindor might prove beneficial to us. Dumbledore will have less cause to suspect your true allegiance this way. Had you asked the Hat not to place you in Slytherin for these reasons, I would have commended your sensibility. Regardless, if the opportunity presents itself, feel free to gather intelligence from your Light housemates and their family members._

 _We will discuss your holiday arrangements later. You will be present for important social events, and that is not up for negotiation. I am well aware of your being "mad at me", but I am ready to talk about your identity and history as Harry Potter whenever you find yourself in the state of the mind to do so. In the meantime, take care of yourself._

 _Your father._

 _P.S: The Chamber is not for the unworthy to enter, and by finding it on your own, you prove your worthiness as the Heir of Slytherin. It only took me five years. Good luck, brat._

"Oh blast it!" I cast a quick flaming spell at the letter. Father would probably expect me to burn it for security's sake anyway, but I'm free to make the parchment burn extra crispy. If my dorm mates are alarmed by the inordinately large fireball in the centre of our room, they don't make a beep. Seriously – it 'only' took him five years and he wishes me good luck? _What is that?_

* * *

Sunday morning finds me in the Slytherin dungeons before daybreak, standing over a deeply sleeping blond-haired boy.

"Draco, wake up. I need to find the Chamber of Secrets."

"Um? Good for you …" Draco turns over with his eyes still closed, stubbornly refusing to leave the land of dreams.

"No, not good for me. I don't know where it is and _you_ 're locating it with me."

No response.

"Draco, I'll turn your bed into a kiddie pool if you don't get. Up, Now."

The Malfoy heir groans but manages to crack open an eye. Smart boy; he knows I'll gladly make good of my threat.

"How did you even get in here?"

"Heir of Slytherin, remember?" The Snakes think their dungeons impenetrable, but it's nothing a good disillusionment spell and a parselmouth cannot handle.

"Drat." Draco reaches for his wand, but gives up on the _Tempus_ spell after three failed attempts. "What time is it?"

"Five-thirty, give or take." I figure since I need to prove my worthiness in less than five years, I better start now. And I'm very much looking forward to meeting a basilisk.

"Merlin … And why do you need to find the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Heir of Slytherin, Draco! How dense are you?"

Draco's eyes suddenly light up. "Oi, are you going to let out the monster and kill all the mudbloods at school?"

"What? No!" I gawk at him, quite scandalized. "Why would I - that's not what old Salazar made the Chamber for!"

"But that's what happened the last time the Chamber was opened." Draco explains. "The Heir brought revenge upon those tainting the school. It was 1943, I do believe."

"1943? Are you quite sure?"

"… Yes? Why?"

"I'm ninety percent certain that Father was the last one to open the Chamber." I reply quietly. We're missing something here, but I don't know what.

"Your father? It can't be! Then he'd be, like, sixty years old!" Draco protests. "And he doesn't look a day older than maybe thirty-five, tops!"

I hum in agreement. As far as we know, magic can only preserve one's youth this much – there's no way to stop someone from aging. You can glamour it, sure – Merlin knows how many of the pureblooded trophy wives do it – but my father certainly hasn't been using a glamour to conceal his age. But of course, there can be aspects of the Dark Arts that can help in this aspect that we aren't familiar with … but then why would Father even bother?

And if that's the case, it brings us to another question. A tougher question.

"The basilisk killed a student, you say?" Finding the Chamber suddenly doesn't seem as fun any more.

"Yes. But it's a mudblood." Draco says rather dismissively. "I wouldn't worry about it."

Draco has strong opinions on blood purity; I don't. I know where my father and his followers stand on this issue, but as a rule, Dad doesn't like to bring his brand of politics into our private home. No "mudblood" has caused me any personal injury before. I don't know many muggleborns, sure, but from what I've seen, Hermione Granger is one fine specimen of the female sex compared to the likes of Pansy and Milly.

"But the public wouldn't think so, would they? Someone died at the school, and they ought to have written all about it in the papers!" I counter, sensing a lead. "Come on, Draco! We are going to the library." Draco groans, utterly miserable.

What better way to spend one's Sunday than reading 50-year-old Daily Prophets? I physically drag my blond haired best friend out of bed.

* * *

We don't find anything useful on the Chamber of Secrets in the library. The unrestricted part, at any rate.

The newspaper lead is a dud.

"Ah, but all newspapers between 1938 and 1945 are in the Headmaster's office – a special collection on the years of the Grindelwald Wars." Madam Pince explains to us good-naturedly. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would be more than happy to let you lads have a look."

Like hell he would. I want to curse something.

"We'll definitely ask him, Madam Pince." Draco and I smile politely. I whisper in urgency as soon as we're out of earshot.

"Restricted Section. Now."

"What – Harry, wait! What if we get caught?"

I shrug. "Nothing too bad, surely?" I'm usually the one that comes up with those Bright Ideas that land us in serious trouble, but now I can blame it on the Something Gryffindor in my blood. Both of my birth parents were Lions anyway – who'd have thunk?

"It's the only way." I head towards the back of the library as inconspicuously as I can. "Draco, come on. There's no one there, see?"

We sneak past the iron gates, quiet as mice. Quite remarkably, we make it to the second shelf before a Grim Reaper-costumed Snape catches us. It's as if he knew we were going to break the rules right here, right now. He gives us – even Draco from his own House! - detention for two weeks without batting an eye.

* * *

Monday after class, the moment I've been waiting for finally comes – with a twist. I'm called into the Headmaster's office, not for having a dark lord as a father, not for keeping a very deadly Indian Cobra under my bed, but for bringing my Nimbus 2000 to school in my first year. Just my kind of luck.

The stone gargoyles open up before I can knock, and I'm greeted by the sight of the only wizard Father has ever feared … sucking on a stick candy.

"Oh, hello, Harry. Take a seat, please." He doesn't make it sound like I'm in trouble, but I know better. "Lemon drop?"

"No, thank you, sir." What does he take me for? Those darn candies are obviously laced with something! Veritaserum? I wonder if the air is laced with Veritaserum – that's what I would do.

"All right." The Headmaster vanishes the stick candy and leans forward in his seat. His intense blue gaze falls upon me as I stubbornly stare at a spot on his wrinkly forehead. "Let's get to it, then. Broom racing on a fine Saturday morning, Harry?"

"But it wasn't broom _racing_ , sir! Draco and I were having a one-on-one Seeker's match." I flash him a rather silly smile.

"Ah, Seeker's match? Exciting, I'm sure. But first years aren't allowed their own brooms at Hogwarts, are you and Mr. Malfoy aware of that?"

"Yes, sir." I admit demurely, before going out on a limb. "But with all due respect, sir, this is not a very sensible rule. Draco and I knew perfectly well what we were doing since we've been flying for years. To us, Quidditch is not just a sport, it's – it's a part of our life at home, and we just want it to be a part of our life at Hogwarts."

"School rules are school rules, my boy. But I do understand your sentiment; I myself was quite partial to the sport in my youth." Dumbledore says merrily. I find myself trying and failing to imagine the old codger flying around on an ancient broom. What position he would possibly play? Cheerleading, perhaps?

"That being said, I'm afraid I'll have to give you two lads some form of punishment. Helping out with Mr. Filch for a night or two, perhaps?"

"I would expect nothing less, sir." Inwardly I grumble. Great, another two nights with the _lovely_ Mr. Squib! It's not like Snape hasn't assigned us two whole weeks with that child-eating cripple already.

Dumbledore, however, seems almost mischievous. "On the other hand, Harry, Madam Hooch saw your flying performance on Saturday, and she admits to being quite impressed by how you and Mr. Malfoy handled yourselves on a broom. In fact, she suggested an exception to be made for you lads to be included in the House team tryouts next week. Would that be of interest to you?"

"Yes!" I nearly jump out of my seat, incredible at the turn of events. Detention with Filch is nothing compared to the chance to play my favourite sport. "I mean, I'd love to try out for the team, sir."

"Then I'll surely add your names." The Headmasters smiles at my outburst indulgently. "As well as any first year who proves to be capable with a broom, I think."

"Thank you so much, sir. I'm so excited!" I still can't believe it; I really am lucky sometimes.

"Great! Now that order of business is settled, how are you doing here at Hogwarts, my dear boy?"

"Really good, sir." I answer immediately, quite happy that Father isn't here to shame me on for using 'good' instead of 'well'. The right way just sounds so stuck up. "The classes are interesting and I've made friends in different houses."

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it. I see that you and young Draco are very close."

"Naturally, sir. We're practically brothers." No need to lie on this part.

"Ah, the wonders of young friendships." The old man turns pensive for a second, almost in reminiscence. "I've also noticed that Draco's father, Lucius Malfoy, is listed on Ministry records as your legal guardian?"

That certainly takes me by surprise. I had no idea Uncle Lucius is my guardian, although the arrangement definitely makes sense – it's not like Father can up and file for an adoption under the name "Lord Voldemort". I almost snicker at that thought – the horror on their faces!

"Uncle Lucius and Aunt Narcissa have always been like family to me." I remark naturally.

"And you live with them before you came to school?"

I decide to paly along. "Yes, most of the time, sir. They are very kind people, and they've taught me everything about the magical world." If Dumbledore knows the first part is a blatant lie, he doesn't let on.

"I'm sure they are, Harry. But if I'm not mistaken, you were first living with your mother's relatives…?"

I feel a blush creeping up on my face. Just as well. "I – I _ran away from home_ , sir. My mother's relatives weren't exactly, uh, _kind_ to me. Not at the time, at least … And that's when Uncle Lucius took me in."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, my boy. Sometimes blood isn't what … Alas, I'm glad you've found a family in the Malfoys; upstanding citizens of the wizarding world, I'm sure." _Seriously?_ How dense does he think I am? "Of course, if you ever need a change in scenery, or a different place to stay …"

Oh yes, this is the start of a 'come to the light side' speech, I'm certain. They have lemon drops! "Thank you for the offer, sir, but I'm perfectly happy with my life with the Malfoy family. I'm really looking forward to the Christmas celebrations at the Manor."

"I'm sure it'll be spectacular."

"It always is, sir. I can't wait." I lie. I'm really getting good at this.

I'm saved from a long winded brainwashing session by Minister Fudge, out of all people, sticking his fat head out of the fireplace calling for Dumbledore. Fudge, I do believe, is a dear "friend" of Uncle Lucius'. The Headmaster certainly wouldn't discuss his opinion on the Malfoy family in front of the Minister. I mutter a _thanks_ to my hero, and run back to Gryffindor Tower at full speed.

I can't wait to tell Ron, and then Draco – we get to play freaking Quidditch!


End file.
